“It strikes me you are qualified to deal with any apache.”

“You are angry!”

“Angry!  I should think not!”

“Oh yes, you are!” Max’s eyes shone, his lips curled into smiles.

“And why should I be angry?  Because your silly little wings have begun to sprout?  I’m not such a fool, my boy!  I knew well enough you’d soon be flying alone.”

Max clapped his hands.  “Oh yes, you are!  You are angry—­angry—­angry!  You are angry because I found my way to Montmartre without you, and made a little discovery all by myself!  Is it not like a—­” He stopped, laughed, reddened as though he had made some slip, and then on the instant altered his whole expression to one of appeal and contrition.

“Mon ami!”

Blake’s reply was to pick up the menu and turn to the attending waiter.

“Monsieur Ned!”

Blake glanced at him reluctantly, caught the softened look, and laughed.

“You’re a young scamp—­and I suppose I’m a cross-grained devil!  But if I was angry, where’s the wonder?  A man doesn’t pick up a quaint little book on the quais, and look to have it turning its own leaves!”

“But now?  Now it is all forgiven?  You will not cast away your little book because—­because the wind came and fluttered the pages?”

Once again Max spoke softly, with the softness that broke so alluringly across the reckless independence of look and gesture.

A sudden consciousness of this fascination—­a sudden annoyance with himself that he should yield to it—­touched Blake.

“I can’t go with you to Montmartre,” he said, abruptly.  “It’s McCutcheon’s last day in Paris, and I promised to give him the afternoon.”

“Who?  The long, spider man who disliked me?”

“A spider who weaves big webs, I can tell you!  You ought to be more respectful to your elders.”

“And I ought to have a studio across the river?  Oh, Monsieur Ned, order some food, for the love of God!  I am perishing of hunger.”

Blake ordered the dejeuner, and talked a great deal upon indifferent subjects while they ate; but each felt jarred, each felt disappointed, though neither could exactly have said why.  At last, with a certain relief, they finished their coffee and made a way between the long lines of tables to the door.

There they halted for a moment in mutual hesitation, and at last the boy held out his hand.

“And now I must wish you good-bye!  Shall I see you any more?”

Blake seemed lost in thought; he took no notice of the proffered hand.

“Are you going to drive or walk?” He put the question after a considerable pause.

“I thought to drive, because—­”

Without permitting him to complete the sentence Blake crossed the footpath and hailed a passing cab.

“Come on!  In you get!”

Max obeyed uncertainly, and as he took his seat a sudden fear of loss crushed him—­life became blank, the brightness of the sun was eclipsed.